Behind the Night
by Imogen Kain
Summary: Ten years after the events at the Opera Populaire, the Phantom has moved to America and is producing a brilliant show on Coney Island. One night, a young girl finds her way into the circus - only to delve into the dark, shadowy world of Phantasma. Soon she is mystified and entranced by the enigmatic master, but will he even look her way? PhantomxOC. Post POTO.
1. Grief

**Hello my loves. **

**This story is set about ten years after the events of _Phantom of the Opera_. I'm taking a lot of inspiration from the sequel to POTO, _Love Never Dies_, which opened in 2009 - and which I only just discovered and got, like, totally obsessed with. **

**I've included a lot of details and minor plot points from _Love Never Dies _(Coney Island, Phantasma, Mr. Y etc...), but I'm generally ignoring the overall plot. In this, the Phantom has moved to America and has his own show on Coney Island. He is no longer living underground in obscurity, instead living to spread his music.**

**I figure ten years is enough time for Erik to get over Christine (even though, according to Andrew Lloyd Weber, it's not). So this will be PhantomxOC.**

**I'm including various songs in my fic, from other musicals and a few from popular music. I think the world of _Phantom of the Opera_ really lends itself to song. Erik is just not the same unless he's singing. I hope you like how I incorporated the songs, but if you don't, please let me know! **

**Any and all deviations or changes from song lyrics are intentional, so that the songs can actually fit in with my plot. I tried to keep it so they fit the tunes. I'd love to hear your feedback concerning them!**

*****The Phantom I am writing is based off of Ramin Karimloo from the 25th Anniversary Performance of POTO (It's on Netflix! Watch it!) and the original London cast of _Love Never Dies_ (NO BEN LEWIS! Watching him try to act is painful). **

**Ramin is omg-gorgeous, an insane actor, and he is my favorite Phantom. His voice, in my opinion, is PERFECT for Erik. He feels every single word he sings. So much better than Gerry Butler. I'm in love. Obviously, you can choose to imagine any Phantom who is your favorite, but I urge you to look up Ramin Karimloo. You won't be disappointed.**

**Anyway, enjoy.  
**

**BEHIND THE NIGHT**

* * *

_New York  
Winter, 1890_

Madeleine was dead.

I knew this now, as I hadn't for the past hour.

It was when the first fly landed on her open, cloudy eyeball and she didn't so much as blink. That was when I knew.

A burst of panic coursed through me, long overdue. I'd held it at bay with confusion and denial, telling myself she could just be sleeping. I'd once heard a handsome gypsy tell stories about wise old men who could sleep with their eyes open, and if Madeleine wasn't wise, I didn't know who was.

But now I started to shake and sob as my already-broken world tumbled down to dust.

My sister - my companion and guardian and only savior - was dead.

The concept was one that I was not completely familiar with. But even through my confusion, I understood one thing - Madeleine was gone. I was finally, truly, alone.

And at that moment, I _needed_ to get as far away from her corpse as possible.

I jumped to my dirty bare feet, gathered the threadbare blanket I used as a cloak around my shoulders, and raced out into the freezing New York night. I had nothing but what laid dead in that filthy hovel - no money or possessions to my name. Neither had my sister. We'd started squatting there five days ago, when Madeleine had said she just needed to lay down. She was coughing so much the handkerchief turned red.

She was older than I was - eighteen years old to my fourteen. We'd been on and off the streets since I was four, and generally _on_ since arriving in New York. Our parents moved with us from France to America five years ago. They'd died on the journey, and their girls were thrust into the strange American city with hardly a cent to our names.

I always did just what my sister said. She always led me right. She'd taught me to pick pockets and sneak in when the lights were out. She'd shown me which shops gave away loafs of day-old bread instead of throwing them in the muck. She'd introduced me to the streets of the city, and those who dwelled there - people like us, with nothing besides each other, hiding in the darkness.

I was still trying, as I raced by sputtering street lamps, to come up with the semblance of a plan. But my mind and body were awhirl with grief not yet fully understood. You'd think, living most of my life on the street, that death would be no stranger to me. But Madeleine had always guarded me from such dark things, filling my impressionable little head with stories of phantoms and angels instead of explaining what death really was.

Today, years later, I understand how truly incredible Madeleine was. She was a working girl, selling her body so her little sister wouldn't starve. But she always kept this fact far hidden from me - I thought her nighttime trists were those of a singer in the local tavern. And I never knew how close I was to joining the ranks of the prostitutes myself - her boss had recently noticed that I was flowering, and almost as pretty as my sister. If she hadn't been there to protect me...

Racing down dark city streets, I conjured up the strong belief that Madeleine was with me, a spirit manifested in my frosting breath, guiding me without my knowledge. The thought comforted me, so I shut my eyes and tried letting my feet lead me. I did not even slow my pace, so intense was my faith in the ghost of my sister.

And perhaps it wasn't completely unfounded.

After something like twenty steps I slammed into a set of tall, iron bars. Yes, running with my eyes closed probably wasn't the brightest idea.

The force of impact left me gasping, and I scrambled backwards, holding my left wrist where I'd jammed it against the bars. I started to cry then, desperate and in pain. I sat back heavily into the empty midnight street and wished I had Madeleine's disease so I could die too.

Looking around, I realized I was lost. I was in a part of New York that I'd never visited before, but I vaguely knew it to be Coney Island - that place of dark, whimsical reveries only appropriate for the rich and adult. It was known to be run, at night, by the carnies and entertainers, who were less than what you could call savory. This only made me cry harder. I wallowed for a good ten minutes, telling myself to just give up.

Then I noticed the small maintenance door in the side of the gate, nearly hidden behind the shrubbery. It wasn't latched. Hope flared inside of me, sudden and wonderful, as I looked beyond the fence to the multitude of colorful circus tents and stands. Even now, I could clearly smell food, and thought of all the warm little nooks in the carnival, perfect hiding spots.

Sniffling, I stood, went to the maintenance door and slipped through, into the circus.

The paths were empty, but lit by luminaries that wound between striped canopies and caravan trailers. Enchanted, I crept along, looking for a dark corner where I could curl up unnoticed. Or, better yet, food. It had been nearly three days since I'd eaten.

The first few tents I passed without pausing - they were lit, and I could hear low chatter inside. But as I slipped farther into the carnival, the sounds and movement died down, and it got darker. Presently I came to a large black building on the thoroughfare. A main attraction, though now, I was sure, abandoned for the night. I slipped inside through an unlocked side door.

It was pitch black and quite warm inside, both distinct comforts. One hand to the wall, I navigated the perimeter of what instinctively felt like a huge room, before slipping into what I thought was a narrow side passage. At one point, I trod over something solid in my path, about the size of a melon but much harder. I picked it up, tried to make out its shape in the darkness, and when I couldn't, carried my new mystery with me in search of light. The object was lumpy and oddly shaped, with holes where there shouldn't be holes and various divots.

I don't remember much of that time in the darkness. At some point, I must have decided enough was enough, and settled back against the brick wall for a nap.

I awoke to splitting hunger pains who-knows-how-much-later, still wrapped in my threadbare blanket but no longer shivering. It was warm and seemed dark and quiet, I noticed contentedly. I still had my mysterious item with me, which my fingers still could make not heads nor tails of, but the headache I got after crying so hard was gone. Feeling more optimistic, despite being weak with hunger, I once more got to my feet and trodded off in an arbitrary direction, completely blind.

The music reached me before the light did, haunting and melancholy. _Lonely_, was my first thought of it - and how apt that thought turned out to be. It drifted up the hallway I was traversing, played by violin, every so often accompanied by a rich male voice. I couldn't make out the words, but his tone and talent had my whole body trembling.

Christ. I think I loved him instantly.

I came abruptly to a door, and when I opened it the music was louder. My foot touched a descending step and a cold breeze swept up the passageway - stairs, leading downwards. My heart racing, I started down, wanting to find the source of that music.

I was convinced, for a time, that it was ghost who made the music, especially as I continued my descent and saw no signs of light or life. But then, I rounded a corner, pushed through a velvet hanging, and suddenly my world was opened to me.

I found myself in a wide room, lush and lit softly with candlelight. Velvet drapings in scarlet, black and gold hung from wrought-iron candelabras. The look of the ballroom, the way the light glittered off the crystals adorning the walls, the way the violin music rose and fell, the way that lush male voice wove in and out of the notes... It almost convinced me that I was in a fairy ball.

I crept further inside, peeked around a stone sculpture that resembled a gargoyle, and saw a huge pipe organ across the room. (I've yet to figure out exactly how he managed to get that organ down there.) Next to it stood a desk scattered with pieces of thick parchment, dripping with candlewax and inkpots. A scarlet sofa and matching armchair sat behind it, awaiting an audience, but I dared not come closer.

And then I saw him, standing near the organ.

He was tall, imposing, dressed all in black. For the moment, his face was in the shadow of the wide brimmed hat he wore. But I was positive he looked like the fairy men I'd imagined during all of Madeleine's stories - painfully, surreally beautiful. Certainly his body was long and lithe enough, his voice enchanting enough. His long-fingered hands guided the bow smoothly and artfully across the strings of his polished black violin, coaxing from it sounds such as I had never heard.

**(Cue: Excerpt from "Grief" from _The Devil's Carnival_)**

"_Where claws come in sharpened on wolves in white fleece,_" the man was crooning, his voice a high, clear falsetto on one note, but swooping to deep baritone on the next. To this day, I have never heard a more beautiful voice.

He tilted his head up, and I saw his face - his eyes were closed in passion with his music. He was pale, almost white, but his skin tone had hints of olive - not the European pinkness which I possessed. His hair was perfect black, slicked back against his head neatly. His eyes were black as well, large for a man and somehow exotic, with heavy lids and thick lashes. They crinkled in the corners when he squeezed his eyes shut with feeling, but he was not old. Over those eyes sat expressive eyebrows that always managed to give his face an impression of sadness or concern. His mouth was pale, full.

"_Tears, John… Tears, John…"_

And of course, he wore a mask - a white mask covering the right side of face, from forehead to mouth. When I first saw it, I thought it must be ivory, such like the adventurers bring back from farthest Africa. I found out later that it was porcelain, carved expertly and beautifully by his own hands. He wore it like he'd wear a shirt, as a part of his basic outfit. Even when he was completely alone for weeks on end, he wore that mask every day.

His face was handsome, and while not as handsome as perhaps I'd expected for a fairy, the mask intrigued me. He was mystery, the very definition of it.

Other than the mask, he wore black - I rarely saw him in other colors, but when I did they were white or red. He had impeccable fashion, if somewhat of a propensity towards the extravagant and elegant. That day, he was casual in a black dress-shirt, slacks and suspenders.

"_Tears, John… Tears..._"

I know now that the song he was singing was one of his own creation. It was, in fact, an excerpt from the nouveau-opera being performed in the very theater under which I was now standing.

But to the fourteen year old girl, bony and shivering, the music was magic and the man was a dark angel. I stared at him, utterly enchanted, swaying. There was such sadness, such soulful longing in that voice - aided, of course, by the melancholy tune of the song.

"_You're drowning in the grief of Jupiter's water.  
Let me open my teeth and cradle you there.  
There's a bed for the boy  
And a rope for the father,  
Both orphaned by heaven where no child is spared..._"

At this point, I looked down to the item I still held in my hand - my melon-sized mystery. And, when I let loose a gasp of panic at what it was, his head turned sharply in my direction.

I don't know what it was that affected me so. Perhaps it was his swift movements, the whirling of his dark cloak, the gleam of white from the mask he wore over the right half of his face. Perhaps it was that the music suddenly cut out, leaving only ringing silence. Perhaps it was the fact that I hadn't eaten in the past three days. Or perhaps it was that I discovered the mysterious object I'd been carrying for the past few hours was, in fact, a bone-white human skull.

Whatever the case, I fainted.

* * *

The masked man sighed, looking down at the tiny streetrat who'd just collapsed on his floor. She was pale as a spectre - cheeks, lips, hair, all nearly white. A ghastly little thing, haunting his basement, eavesdropping on his music. She'd snuck in, windblown, uninvited - and listened in silence.

And then she'd fainted. He grimaced at the thought. No surprise there. In his experience, the masked man rather seemed to have that effect on women. Not that this girlish thing was quite a woman - but already she shared the delicacy of that fairer, untouchable sex.

His dark eyes flicked to the item she'd dropped - a perfectly clean, intact human skull. A prop, no doubt, from one of the sideshows. It was made of plaster, but it looked quite real.

He swooped, wanting the urchin out of his home, and scooped her up in his arms. He was surprised at the lightness of her, as though her bones were hollow. As ethereal and spectral as a true ghost. Her lips were blue, her breathing shallow.

A moment of pity swept through the masked man when he saw her hands - fingers thin and white as bone, the delicate blue veins glowing beneath papery skin. She would starve, and soon. The man's mouth tightened.

He tucked the pity away, where he tucked away all of his uncomfortable, shadowy emotions, and carried her towards building's exit. He had no time for an urchin girl, even a starving one. He was a phantom, not a philanthropist.

After a moment of thought, the man turned and scooped up the skull she'd dropped as well, taking it with them.

* * *

I awoke, freezing and shaking violently, just outside the gates to the carnival. Only this time, the small service door was firmly shut and bolted with a rusty iron padlock I was _sure_ had not been there before.

It was dawn, and I was freezing. I wasn't sure, for a long moment, whether the fairy man and his violin had been a dream. Then I looked down to what had been gently rested next to my legs - the human skull I'd picked up in the darkness. Doubtless, he'd left it with me on purpose.

Today, I shake my head at his dark sense of humor - purposefully frightening the wits out of a tiny girl, a silent unmistakable warning.

But back then it merely scared me. I cried out and tossed the skull away from me - it shattered on the stone sidewalk across the street. I never did find out who it had belonged to. But it solidified my experience as non-imaginary.

"That was no dream," I muttered to myself, pulling my thin arms around my quivering body. Suddenly, despite the skull, I was aching for the warmth of that building, for the low sensuality of the man's voice - it awoke in me something I'd never felt before. A longing to explore the darkness behind the stars. And with that longing came a bravery I hadn't known I possessed.

I grinned to myself at the padlock on the fence. As if that would stop me. Madeleine had long ago taught me how to pick a lock.

For the second time that night, I made my way down to the basement of that building, which I now saw, in the new light, was a theater. I scarcely thought through my actions, focused only on the man with the angelic voice and long white fingers. I was determined not to faint this time. And if I was brave and proved myself to him, perhaps we'd dance and drink honeywine, or he'd take me to his fairy kingdom to be his queen.

Music drifted up the stairway once I found it again, this time played on the organ, the tune very different. Whereas before the song had been mournful and slow, this sounded much like someone simply slamming his hands into the keyboard, with only a hint of discordant melody. It frightened me, grated on my ears, but it was powerful nonetheless. There were no lyrics to accompany it, but I could hear the man vocalize hypnotically with his music.

I crept into the lit cavern, silent as a mouse, staying to the shadows. The man had eyes only for his music, however. He sat behind his organ, his back to me, playing furiously. He no longer wore his hat. From where I was I could only see the shininess of his ebony hair.

As I watched him, his music shifted to something slower, and he stopped vocalizing altogether. Then he took his hands from the keys, picked up a feather quill and started scribbling intensely on a large black journal to his left.

While he was thus pored over his work, I took the opportunity to slide myself up into the huge velvet armchair behind him, curling around myself as I watched him. He had yet to take notice of me, and turned as he was, I was confident he wouldn't for some time.

Once again in the warmth and light, more comfortable in that armchair than I could ever remember being, and weak from starvation and the long journey, I once again closed my eyes. The _scrit-scrit-scrit _of his quill lulled me into slumber.

* * *

It wasn't fifteen minutes later, and I was woken by his booming vibrato: "_Who _are_ you?!_"

I scrambled to a seated position to find him towering over me, imposing and furious.

"_Desole, monsieur_!" I cried out in my native tongue, which always found its way out of my mouth when I was panicked. I closed my eyes, and tried again in English, "I'm s-sorry, sir."

The masked man frowned at me, dark eyes glittering.

"_Tu parles le francais?_" he asked.

I nodded and said "_Oui_." Clearly I spoke French, and it seemed he did, too. It had a strange calming effect on him. He took a deep breath through his nose.

"Your name?" he asked in French. I gathered myself and tried to sit straighter.

"Isabelle," I replied, then revised: "Belle." _Belle_ was what my sister had always called me, since before I could remember. It was a sweet nickname - _belle_ meant beautiful - but it was what I was used to. I could not tell him my last name - I didn't know it.

"Belle," the man repeated, his voice gruff. He laughed humorlessly, as though that in itself was a cosmic joke. Or perhaps it was because he did not think me beautiful at all. It hurt me, his laugh.

He swept back to his organ, his long coat fluttering behind him. I watched him, still feeling as though he must be a dream.

"Leave me now, child," he said, his voice deep and tired. "And do not come back. Or you _will_ suffer the consequences of your actions."

**(Cue: Excerpt from "Castle on a Cloud" from _Les Miserables_)**

I stood, reaching out to him, and sang in a clear, wavering voice:

"_Please do not send me out alone._" He stilled at his organ, his head turning to listen over his shoulder.  
"_Not in the darkness on my own_…"

"_Enough of that_," he sang back, low and smooth, planting his hands on the surface before him and hunching his shoulders. "_Or I'll forget to be nice_. _You heard me ask for something, and I never ask twice_." The last few words were a growl.

I sighed, frightened by him and yet wishing he would let me stay. But, bowing my head, I made my way back towards the door. A song had popped into my head at the sight of his mask, one Madeleine had sung me often. She, in turn, had heard it from our mother, who used to be a chorus girl in an opera house in Paris.

**(Cue: "Masquerade" from _Phantom of the Opera_)**

"_Masquerade,_" I sang softly, to comfort myself, slowly moving towards the door. I felt weaker than I had before my short nap in the chair, and hungrier. Food was my first priority, or I would pass out. "_Paper faces on parade…  
Masquerade.  
Hide your face so the world will never find you…"_

And then I heard his voice behind me, tremulous and tender.

"_Masquerade_," he continued the song. I stopped and looked back to find him turned and staring toward me, eyebrows furrowed. "_Every face a different shade.  
Masquerade.  
Look around, there's another mask behind you._"

"Where," he said, after a moment, low and silky, "did you hear that?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but a wave of nausea swept over me, combined with a light-headedness I associated with an empty stomach. I groaned and my legs collapsed beneath me. For the third time that night, my world swam into blackness.

* * *

**I hope you liked chapter one! Plenty more to come - I've written about fifty pages, so far. Stay tuned for more songs and romance (though, obviously, the romance won't come until later - Belle is only 14 at this point).**

**Review, please! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Did the songs work? Is the Phantom in character?**


	2. Welcome to my Nightmare

**Hello dears. To reiterate, all changes in song lyrics are intentional, so that they fit in better with my story. I just can't imagine the Phantom saying "gonna," you know?**

**Review please! Love it? Hate it? Let me know!**

**I own nothing, obviously.**

* * *

I awoke wrapped in soft velvet, in a tiny, candle-lit chamber. Blinking blearily, feeling utterly weak, I tried to sit up to find my bearings but failed miserably. My body wasn't obeying me - I could barely move my arms, much less push myself seated.

With a flutter of disbelief and excitement, my eyes fell upon a vase of water on the bedside table, and, next to it, an entire loaf of crusty French bread.

My arms forgot their lethargy, shooting towards the food with abandon. I almost knocked over the water pitcher as I grabbed the entire loaf and brought it to my mouth, tearing into it with my teeth. I'm sure I looked quite wild at that moment. I had half the bread consumed in less than a minute but it took some time to feel the effects of it spreading through my body. And then, in my stomach, a wonderful, full feeling. One I hadn't felt for months.

I gulped down some water before finishing the bread. It was more than I'd ever eaten at once - I had never before even imagined having an _entire_ loaf of bread to myself. I settled back into the pillows behind me, wondering vaguely where I was. The room was built with rough-hewn lumber and plaster, and there were faded circus posters adorning the walls.

I thought about exploring, but my quick meal was making me heavy and warm. I drank more water, then curled up and again fell asleep.

* * *

I woke to the sound of tittering laughter from the next room. Slowly, I left the soft bed I'd been placed in, and noticed how much better I felt.

A fresh loaf of bread had been left on the nightstand, and there was a salami on a tray next to it. I inhaled both in a matter of moments, then stretched, feeling uncomfortably full.

I noticed for the first time I was dressed only in my undergarments - just a shift and cheap bloomers. I blushed at the idea of the masked man undressing me (though I found out that he had obviously not been the one to take my dress off for bed - that had been done by Molly, who will be introduced presently).

I looked around for something to wear, and noticed a bundle of dusky purple fabric in a chair by the door. I picked it up curiously - it wasn't my torn gray dress, filthy and two sizes too small. It was much heavier, and it had boning sewn in at the torso, almost like a corset. Like _ladies_ wore. I'd never had a corset before!

Eagerly, not even sure this dress was left for me, I stepped into it. It was cut in the fashion of the day - long sleeves with a little puff at the shoulders, a modest square neckline, a small bustle at the back and a long, slim skirt. It was a bit large for me, and there were laces to tighten it at the back that I couldn't do, so I left them open. I closed the fabric over it and buttoned up the back. Once I wore it, though, I felt beautiful. I spun, finding it inside myself to actually giggle.

Who'd have thought such a terrible night would culminate in _this_?

Glancing in the mirror standing on the nightstand, I tamed my wild blond curls as well as I could, but I was aware I looked quite ridiculous as I finally took a deep breath and left the room.

"Oh, if it ain't the little streetrat," a nasally female voice greeted me as soon as I stepped into the chamber beyond.

I found myself in the grand auditorium of the carnival's theater. The stage was gargantuan, its curtain black velvet instead of the classic gold and scarlet. The seats were black velvet, too. On the stage and all around it lounged something close to twenty or thirty people.

They were dressed strangely, garishly, in stripes, tutus, tights and glitter - costumes, I found out later. They were performers in the circus, on the stage - they were the lifeblood of Coney Island. And they frightened me.

The woman who had addressed me sat on the edge of the stage with a few others. She was wearing a very short sleeveless dress striped black and white, with a puffy skirt. Her legs were _bare_ (scandal!) apart from black ballet shoes with laces up to her thighs, and her corset dug obscenely into her chest, making her cleavage quite pronounced. Her hair was dark, coiffed into frizzy pigtails on either side of her head.

To either side of her stood a tall, slender mime wearing a glittering black tuxedo and a tiny man with beefy arms in a wrestling outfit.

The other performers that mingled in the room were each more colorful and whimsical than the last. I saw clowns and contortionists and freaks of nature. One man was nearly naked but for a loin cloth and various piercings and tattoos adorning his skin, his muscular body dripping with sweat as he blew out a burst of fire. There was a hunched, heavyset man who walked on his knuckles like a gorilla, and a woman with horns apparently growing from her head.

Demons, some would say, but those people are idiots. Phantasma's performers all fascinated me right off. They seemed strange and beautiful, and scary in an exciting way. Through my fear, part of me wished I was somehow extraordinary.

My eyes lingered curiously on another man, handsome, with long pale hair, nearly white, and eyes ringed darkly in black kohl. He had no shirt on under his coat and tails, his chest was defined and masculine, his nipples pierced with rings. And he was slowly swallowing a sword.

People around him were kissing, others groping or laughing uproariously, others drinking. Actually, almost all of them were drinking.

I was overwhelmed and enchanted immediately, and frightened out of my mind after a moment. I froze by the door. I felt I was in a world I did not understand, one where I did not belong - one far too shadowy and adult for me.

The woman in the striped dress was beckoning for me, her scarlet painted lips spread in a grin over teeth that glinted gold in places. Slowly, carefully, I crept toward her.

"Ooh, a little mouse," said the mime next to her, silkily, squatting down to get a better look as I approached the stage. I glared at him. Mimes weren't supposed to talk, everyone knew that. He grinned and reached out fluidly towards me, and I stopped short of his reach. He frowned in an ironic way. "Pretty little mouse, why so shy?"

"You're a dick, Louis," the little man beside him snorted, hardly turning his red-rimmed eyes to me. He had his hand on the thigh of the painted lady lounging next to him, who seemed cloaked in dragon scales. Her lips were green, and when she smiled her teeth were pointed, sharp.

"What's your name, honey?" the woman in the black and white stripes asked, leaning down to me. She smiled kindly, and I noticed she was quite pretty, if a bit rough looking. She had the thick, nasally accent of a New Yorker.

"Isabelle," I replied, determined to sound brave. My voice came out too loud, and it caught the attention of a few performers around us. The sword swallower stopped whatever he was doing with the silver hooks he held and leaned towards us.

"Belle," the mime, Louis, tasted on his tongue, a bit lasciviously. "Little French beauty." The black-and-white lady elbowed him, hard, and he bounced backwards onto his butt, laughing.

"Nice to meetcha," the woman said. "I'm Molly. This is Louis," she gestured to the grinning mime, "and that's Max and his wife Claudia." The little man and his lizard lady waved lazily.

"You like your dress?" Molly asked, sliding off the stage to stand before me. I nodded shyly, fingering my skirt, and she graced me with a soft smile. She reached out to place a hand gently on my shoulder and I leaned into the touch, not realizing how much I needed physical comfort. Molly's deep blue eyes reminded me of Madeleine.

At the thought of my dead sister, tears flooded my vision and I sniffled despite myself. Immediately concerned, Molly knelt in front of me, her hand cupping my face in a motherly display of affection.

"Whassa matter, puddin'?" she asked. I shook my head.

"Nothing," I managed, furious at myself. What kind of impression was I making? I roughly wiped away the snot under my nose as Molly gently slid her thumb against my cheek, drying my tears.

"How old are you, anyway?" she asked.

"Fourteen."

"Christ," Max the little man hissed from the stage. "A kid. I hope Y knows what he's doing…"

"Where am I?" I asked, looking around.

"Where _are _you?" the lizard lady, Claudia, exclaimed. She, unlike the rest of them, was not American. Her accent was vaguely Eastern European (I found out later she hailed from Prague). "Don't you _know_?"

"You're in Phantasma, kid!" Louis exclaimed, spreading his arms to the sky. The mention of the carnival's name made a cheer erupt from the other performers, who clinked their cups and drank deeply. "The circus of dreams…" His eyes sparkled as he leapt from the stage, his lithe body arching smoothly, his tux glittering. He slid up before me, his finger under my chin lifting my head to meet his eye. He was very tall and behind the makeup I saw green eyes and high cheekbones. "Or, maybe, the circus of nightmares." He grinned wickedly.

**(Cue: "Welcome to my Nightmare" by Alice Cooper)**

"Don't scare the kid," Molly scolded from behind. But Louis ignored her, stooping to look in my eyes.

Louis sang in a raspy tenor that sent shivers from scalp to sole:

"_Welcome to our nightmare,"_ he grinned, gesturing around. "_I think you're gonna like it._"

He stepped toward me and, frightened, I stepped back. We continued this slow game of cat and mouse as he kept singing.

"_I think you're gonna feel you belong.  
A nocturnal vacation  
Unnecessary sedation  
You wanna feel at home, cause you belong._"

He grinned like a cat, reaching out for me, and I scrambled backwards, right into the arms of a man with so many piercings I could scarcely see his face. I gasped.

"_Welcome to our nightmare, whoa-oh-oh-oh_," Louis hissed as the pierced man's hands closed around my upper arms to hold me in place.

The sword swallower with the pierced nipples and the long white hair appeared beside Louis, pushing past him as he slowly approached me, like a stalking cat. His voice was lower than Louis', more silky.

"_Welcome to our nightmare_," he sang to me. "_I hope he didn't scare you_." He gestured in an irritated way to Louis, but his smile was hardly more reassuring. "_That's just the way we are when we come down_."

"_We sweat and laugh and scream here_," Max called from the stage, guttural.

"_Cuz life is just a dream here_," Molly sang in a high, lovely voice.

"_You know inside you feel right at home here_," Louis sang, his smile sly and ironic. Because, no, I didn't feel at home. I felt very frightened and very watched.

I know now that, as the sword swallower said, this was just how they initiated new performers - by scaring the shit out of them. It was playful, and all in good fun (except, perhaps, for Louis), but it seemed cruel to me. I pinched my lips together.

"_Welcome to our breakdown, whoa-oh-oh-oh_," the cast sang all together, hushed and hissing. I ripped away from the pierced man and ran to Molly's side, gripping her arm on instinct. She smiled down at me.

"_You're welcome to our nightmare, whoa-oh-oh-oh_," everyone sang. I found every single person's eyes were on me, and through my fear I was excited, enchanted. I gazed around.

Then, a deep, perfect voice came from behind us, hardly more than a whisper.

"_Welcome to my nightmare_…"

Molly and I turned together, and there was the masked man, having appeared on the stage like a ghost. He reached out to me with one gloved hand, his eyes dark and intense.

"_I think that you might like it_."

He allowed a smile to flit across his full lips, but his expression instantly changed into an unfathomable one as he sang the next line - like longing or concern.

"_I think that you may feel you belong_."

I stepped away from Molly, towards him, entranced. He lifted his chin, looking down at me and gesturing around with one hand.

"_We sweat and laugh and scream here,  
For life is just a dream here._"

His hand thrust out to point to me.

"_You know inside you feel right at home, here_.  
_Welcome to my nightmare, whoa-oh-oh-oh_."

I stared into his eyes for what felt like ages, losing myself in the blackness. He nodded at me, slowly, seeming to know the effect he had on me.

"_Welcome to my breakdown-…"_

"Mistah Y!" Molly squealed, and his eyes snapped to her, effectively breaking the spell. He turned towards her as she scrambled up on stage to curtsy at him. "I've been wanting to talk to you for _weeks_. And then I found your note and little Belle here, and I knew you'd come back, but you weren't at the performance last night. I didn't know _what_ to think. Where've you been?"

"Away," he said vaguely. "And I have returned to find my production in _pieces_." Molly flinched away at the anger in his tone, and the rest of the entertainers chattered to each other, worried by his reaction to the state of the circus.

"It's not too bad, is it?" Molly asked, warily.

"It is a disgrace," the masked man, Mr. Y, replied, gesticulating. "The orchestra is a cacophony, the acrobats are clumsy, the dancing lamentable. We will have to begin again."

The cast groaned and immediately began to disband, off to perform their various duties. Off to practice their various talents. Mr. Y swept backstage, not even looking toward me again, his long black coat trailing behind him, and Molly followed like a puppy.

I felt a long fingered hand close over my shoulder and I gasped, turning to meet Louis' sparkling eyes. The handsome sword swallower stood behind him, looking bored.

"Come on, little mouse," Louis said, beckoning. "Tomorrow we work you harder than you've ever been worked." At my look of confusion he laughed. "You want to stay, you work. But tonight - you have a show to attend."

"The show in pieces?" I snapped back, disliking this man intensely. He laughed, and the sword swallower laughed, too, coming forward to clasp my hand with his. I looked down to his fingers, clever and long, criss-crossed with multiple scars.

"Name's Corvo," he introduced himself, leaning down to kiss the back of my hand. I'd never had a man do that to me before, and I blushed scarlet as he met my eyes and slowly straightened. "And the master is just a perfectionist. He wrote it, but no one can match the vision he sees in his head. The show's much better than he says."

"The best show on Coney Island," Louis boasted.

"Come," Corvo said, and I followed.

* * *

Mr. Y's show, Phantasma, was a triumph. A delight. A _phenomenon_. I had never been more enchanted. I sat in the back, all wide eyes and wonder, as I watched Mr. Y's vision unfold before my eyes.

It was a grandiose love story, a tragedy in many parts, and the cast was comprised of well over fifty talented performers. It had everything - music, dancing, knife-throwing, freak-showing, contortion, acrobatics, illusions and _more_.

Molly was the headliner, and could that woman sing! She was brilliant, a temptress, and matched stunningly by her romantic counterpart - none other than the bewitching Corvo, who acted as ring-leader, stunt-man and singer. I already was developing quite a crush on the pale-haired sword swallower.

The show ended with a kiss, the lovers reunited, and the audience thundered its approval. I leapt to my feet and screamed, "_Bravo! Brava! Encor, encor!_" clapping until my hands hurt.

I went to bed in a little cubbyhole in a tent next door with the dancer girls, and slept more soundly and sweetly than I had ever slept before.

* * *

The next morning, the circus made good on Louis' promise of hard work.

I was awoken at dawn by the head of housekeeping, Mrs. Crowley. She was a no-nonsense woman who snapped more often than she smiled, austere and formidable. But I liked her, nonetheless.

She put me to work sweeping the stage, and after that I polished every candelabra - of which there were hundreds. And then there were a million other things to do. I waxed and mopped and scrubbed for hours, until my hands bled and I had blisters on my feet.

That night I fell into bed weeping and sore, only to wake the next morning and start the cycle afresh.

For those first few weeks, the only thing that kept me going through the intense work was being allowed to watch the show every night. I came to know the characters as I would know my own family. But then I grew accustomed to the hard work - my hands formed calluses, my back grew strong - and I enjoyed even that. It was fulfilling, and they paid me a modest salary, which made me feel independent.

The cast and crew enfolded me easily, though I kept to myself for a while. I was quiet, often startling people when they weren't aware I was in the room, and Louis' nickname of "Little Mouse" stuck with me.

But after a while, I started to feel at home, just as they'd said I would. We ate together, laughed together, sang together and cleaned together. Molly seemed to like me, and as I was the youngest member of the company she took me under her wing. She was common but kind, and everyone sarcastically referred to her as the Diva - for although she was the lead actress in the show, she was far from a starlet. She cleaned and cooked with the rest of us.

I warmed up to Louis, who showed me card tricks and kept his hands off me. There were very few people near my age, so I was forced to grow up, and grow up fast. Nakedness stopped bothering me - people changed freely in the wings of the stage and in the middle of tents, or simply spent their days mostly naked. Those with deformities and oddities - the Freaks - in particular wore very little clothing.

Sex became something I was familiar enough with (even though I'd never experienced it). The performers were big fans of free love, and none were afraid to speak of their affairs. Some of the lewdest tongues I've ever known, I met in Phantasma.

After a while, Mrs. Crowley and I discovered my talent with sewing, when I was asked to stitch up the curtains. Apparently, my hands were nimble, quick, and detail oriented - a fact I hadn't even known about myself. I was just as surprised as everyone when I was sent to the costuming department - but none of us were sorry for it. We pumped out some incredible costumes after that, and cheaply, too.

* * *

_Spring, 1891_

Months passed. For the first time in my life, I had a home.

I rarely saw the composer and creator, that enigmatic Mr. Y. He was a legend, even in his own company - a recluse, a musician, an illusionist and a genius. Molly was rather in love with him, and I couldn't say I didn't understand why. He was handsome - the part of his face I could see, anyway - but it was more than that. It was his presence, his voice… his _intensity_.

"He could seduce ya just by standin' there," Molly told me a couple days before my fifteenth birthday, as I put some golden stitches in her new, deep purple corset. "The way he moves…"

We sat on the stage in our little group - me, Molly, Louis, Corvo, Max and Claudia. Somehow, though I was young and untalented, I was allowed to associate with these incredible people. Though, to be fair, I started by simply followed them around without their permission. Soon, as I knew they would, they grew used to me. And after a while I was gratified to know they missed me in my absence.

"The way he _moves_?" Louis scoffed, shuffling his ever-present deck of cards. "He's still as a statue one moment, then suddenly he's _all_ movement." He moved the cards from hand to hand in a smooth arch. "It's fucking mad."

"It's gorgeous," Molly said dreamily. I smiled.

"He strikes like a snake," I said softly. It was something I noticed about Mr. Y on those rare occasions he oversaw the show in person - his hands flicked and conducted on their own, and his head moved quickly and accurately if something caught his attention. "Or a jaguar."

"Ooh, sounds like the Little Mouse is in love," Louis teased. I blushed and hunched back over the corset.

"Where'd you hear tell of snakes and jaguars?" Corvo scoffed. I always thought he was a bit jealous of Mr. Y - though surely he had many more women than our master. "Don't talk nonsense."

"We're in a bloody _circus_," I pointed out. "We _deal_ in nonsense." I had a foul mouth, I was discovering - probably Max and Louis rubbed off on me, each of whom said "fuck" more than almost any other word.

Corvo looked at me sulkily, through eyes half-lidded. "You bore me," he replied.

I pouted. Corvo was a grown man, and clearly knew about my girlish crush on him. But when he wasn't meaninglessly flirting, he could err on the side of cruel. When Louis was mean, I just stuck my tongue out at him or tried to sting back. But when Corvo was mean, it hurt.

"Careful, Corvy," Molly said. "Keep in mind who sews your costumes." She laughed. "We don't want another Mina-Mishap."

I smiled quietly as the other performers burst into laughter, Max clapping me jovially on the back. Mina had been a ballerina in the company, generally hated by the rest of us - she was rude, demanding and diva-ish. And French, which was something of a point of contention in the company. I only got by because I wasn't snooty about my heritage, though I received a reasonable amount of flack for it.

Anyway, Mina and I had been arguing about her tutu, which she was convinced I had torn at the hem on purpose. I was trying to explain that she had snagged it on a nail as she ran out on stage, but she wanted to be angry at someone and I was her target. She screamed at me, then reached out and grabbed the bodice of my dusky purple dress (it was my favorite outfit). With a horrible rip, she tore it down the front, ruining it and exposing my translucent shift to everyone milling about backstage. It infuriated me.

That night, I made a cut in the crotch of Mina's tights. Just a tiny thing, that I knew would spread rapidly if she so much as spread her legs. She didn't even notice until she was onstage in her solo dance, doing the high kick. With a rip and a gasp, the audience was laughing.

She was banished from the company shortly after. Such a lewd display, onstage in the middle of the show, was not to be forgiven. I saw her one last time leaving the theater's basement in tears - generally the consensus was, if Mr. Y called you to his basement, it was bad news.

* * *

_Summer, 1891_

Summer was coming, and so were the crowds. I'd never seen more happy people in one place - tourists and children and locals all came to our gates for our days and nights of whimsy. The theater, called Main Stage, hosted the largest act, the one written and directed by Mr. Y. They performed twice a night, but for the rest of the day the tents were filled to bursting with freaks, wonders and entertainers. When I was not sewing, I was with Louis learning slight of hand, and had recently been allowed to set up a tiny stand to beguile the public out of their money with my little magic tricks.

One night, after a successful show and record-breaking crowds, I was alone on Main Stage, doing the last sweep of the night. Everyone had retired to their tents and caravans, and the theater was empty and dark.

My mind was full of tonight's show - having been tweaked by Mr. Y to phenomenal ends. The music astonished me, and I hummed as I swept, my feet moving the steps of the dance I'd watched so many times.

Soon I'd abandoned cleaning altogether, and was simply dancing with the broom as though it was my handsome companion. I curtsied at it, spun around, and began a song Molly sang each evening - a bawdy retelling of the fable of the scorpion and the frog.

**(Cue: "Prick! Goes the Scorpion's Tale" from _The Devil's Carnival_)**

"_Black_," I sang, putting my hand dramatically to my brow, "_black is love's potion.  
We drink, we drink from its well.  
And in their names let's drink to true love,  
Where a toad and a scorpion fell."_

I grinned, pleased with my voice. I hadn't even cracked at the high note. I'd been warming up and practicing with the chorus, even though I was not allowed to perform, and I had improved notably.

"_Yes_," I continued. "_In their names, let's drink to true love  
For true love can break the spell_."

Suddenly, a man's voice wafted through the auditorium, echoing me, slow, deep and beautiful: "_For true love can break the spell_…"

I gasped and dropped the broom, going still as I peered through the darkness into the seats, attempting to see the intruder. But no one was there. I looked up to the wings, then behind me… but I seemed to be alone.

Had I imagined that?!

"Go on," the voice hissed. I jumped again. It seemed like it was all around me, yet I couldn't see him. "Sing, girl."

My mouth gaped, my heart started pounding. Was that the voice of Mr. Y? And why did he want me to -...

"_Sing!_" he commanded, his voice booming from the rafters.

So I did.

"_Awake from your dream, frog maiden,  
Skin green as the emerald sea.  
I will tell you a tale of a love that did fail.  
Prick, prick, prick!  
Goes the scorpion's tail."_

I flinched at the sound of my own voice, girlish and untrained. Molly's womanly, rounded tones fitted this mature operatic much better than my own. But when no further instruction came from the voice, I continued.

"_She blushed as she walked by the water,  
Having known him the evening before.  
She liked how he spoke,  
But aware of his poke.  
Prick, prick, prick!  
Goes the scorpion's tail!"_

I was getting into it, now, swishing my skirts and moving to the tune.

"_Oh love it is foolish and green,  
My love.  
How quickly we forget the sting,  
My love.  
What a pretty yet dangerous line,  
My love.  
What bitter yet delicious wine,  
My love…"_

I copied Molly's seductive tones as I sang the last few words, then paused. I wondered if I would only embarrass myself by continuing.

"Monsieur?" I asked to the room at large. I always called Mr. Y _monsieur_ in my head, because I knew he was French.

He did not reply. I sighed. I was alone.


	3. Razzle Dazzle

**Woo I'm pumping these out! If you're still here and reading, I hope you enjoy! It'd be awesome to hear from you.**

**This story is pretty cheesy, I'm realizing as I reread it. It's pretty much purely for fun on my part, not as dark or super-seriously as some of my other stories. So forgive the cheese, please. :)**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

That night, when I returned to the dancer's tent where I slept, I found a note on my cot. It was written in French, in an elegant, spidery hand on thick creamy parchment and simply read:

"_Tomorrow you will report to M. Castro. It is time that instrument of yours was trained_."

He signed with an elaborate _Y._

My heart leapt. Mr. Castro was the chorus master, in charge of vocal training. Had my singing impressed Mr. Y? Was I to join the cast?!

* * *

I was disappointed on that point. Castro briskly informed me the next morning that Mr. Y wanted me in voice training, but considered me far from ready to join his show - even on the chorus line. Still, I was thrilled with this newfound endeavour, and commenced daily practice, both private and with the other singers.

* * *

_Fall, 1891_

One crisp autumn morning a few months later, Molly flew to me with her feathers all ruffled.

"We're leavin', Belle!" she cried, tears in her eyes, and she hugged me hard.

"What?" I asked breathless. "Where are we going?"

"Why do you think she's crying, Mouse?" Corvo asked, appearing silently behind me (as was a usual practice of his). "You're not coming with us."

"What?!" I shrieked, unable for a long moment to process what was happening.

"Only the main cast is goin'," Molly explained tearfully. "He says they'll have crew in other theaters. We're _travelin'_, Belle."

I felt like sobbing, but I only nodded, thinking this over. A traveling company was not unheard of, and I agreed that this show needed to be seen by everyone who could. The world would benefit from Mr. Y's genius.

"Europe," Corvo said. "And then into Asia - Y has an obsession with Persia, I think."

"How long will you be gone?" I asked. Corvo shrugged, but he tugged at my curls in a way that told me he was sad to go, too.

"Years, probably."

* * *

That night I wandered Main Stage again after strike. I didn't have an agenda, but vaguely thought it possible that Mr. Y was in the building. The auditorium seemed empty, all the sets and props having been dismantled so they could be packed. It was very sad. I felt a chapter in my life was ending. And the unknown scared me. Everything seemed alien, though I'd lived here nearly a year.

**(Cue: "As if We Never Said Goodbye" from Sunset Boulevard)**

"_I don't know I'm frightened_," I sang.  
"_I know my way around here.  
The cardboard trees,  
The painted scenes,  
The sounds here…  
Yes, a world I can discover.  
But I'm not in any hurry.  
And I need a moment…"_

"You are improving, mademoiselle."

I started, looking toward the wings to find the source of that deep voice, resonating with just a rich touch of vibrato. And this time he did not hide from me. I saw the figure of Mr. Y, unmoving in the shadows, watching me. It sent shivers down my back, though I wasn't sure if they were pleasant or not.

He spoke in French, which comforted me - as though he preferred my language instead of English. I followed his lead.

"Monsieur," I greeted, sweeping him a curtsey. He took a few slow steps toward me, but otherwise stayed silent. "Mr. Castro is an excellent teacher."

"With time, perhaps you will be fit to sing in my production."

"I would love that, monsieur," I replied sincerely. "Thank you. I'll work very hard, and when you return you will hear a new Belle."

**(Cue: excerpt from _Phantom of the__ Opera_)**

Mr. Y smiled beneath his mask, and started towards me slowly. He sang:

"_No doubt you'll do your best.  
It's true, your voice is good.  
You know, though, should you wish to excel  
You have much still to learn.  
And so each day you'll return to him,  
Your teacher… Your teacher._"

He looked at me, long and silent, and I flushed under that direct gaze. What was going on behind those black eyes?

"Go now," he said. "The theater will be locked from this day until my return."

With a last, hasty curtsey I fled from him. Why did he make me so _nervous_?

* * *

They left a week later - Corvo, Molly, Max and Claudia, along with about thirty others. Louis stayed behind, as did more than half of the cast and all of the crew. I was glad to have Louis, but despaired losing the rest of them. The carnival felt empty, even though we tried to keep it the same as ever.

But Main Stage was closed down - dark and empty. No one went in, not even to clean. I think it depressed us to even look at it.

Months passed, then years, and they did not return.

Each day we performed our sideshows, each night we missed the splendor of Main Stage and Mr. Y's masterpiece. I practiced singing and illusion in equal measure, and soon I was proud of my accomplishments in both. I was a keen soprano with a wide range - Louis stopped calling me Mouse and started referring to me as Bird. Which, I suppose, was a step in the right direction.

We lost customers though. Without the headliner and the amazing Main Stage spectacle, Phantasma ceased to be the most attractive carnival on Coney Island. My world became much emptier - there was always less energy in the air.

* * *

_Spring, 1893_

When I was almost seventeen, Mr. Castro decided I should have my own act. We had the space, and excess cast and crew, and perhaps something fresh would bring in revenue. I was also the youngest girl in the company, and Castro said I had a life to me, and a real presence on stage.

"You can't fake stage presence like that," he said, and I flushed with pride. "That's real talent. You know how to move and speak up there."

The prospect of my own show thrilled me, and I worked long days and nights to put it together. I was given one of the empty tents just off the thoroughfare, and decided to include both illusion and music - a heretofore unexplored combination. I enlisted the help of Louis, who I considered a senior magician, and together we crafted a moderate yet bewitching stage show.

Castro and I wrote new songs for it. While they would probably make Mr. Y cringe in dismay, I was proud of them. I'd never written songs before, but Mr. Castro had taught me how to plunk out tunes on the piano, and I found I had a natural ear for what sounded good. This wasn't to say it was easy. Those months and months of preparation were probably the hardest I'd ever worked.

My show became my obsession. And I don't know when it started, but along the way I had this idea that if I threw my soul into it, Mr. Y would finally see me. Even if it was rough around the edges, he'd appreciate how much of myself was in it.

I started to dedicate it to him - that idea of a man, that vague, distant shadow. I did not even know him then, but he was on my mind constantly.

My pining for him made its way into the show. Louis and I played star-crossed lovers - a maiden and a pirate - who are cast together and apart by the winds of circumstance. Through the power of magic, we are almost able to be together in the end - until a terrible storm takes the pirate captain's life. His maiden wanders the shore hence, singing and calling for him, until she becomes part of the ocean and joins him in the afterlife. It was a melancholy tale, but I thought it would suit Mr. Y's sensitivities - if he ever came back, that was.

* * *

_Fall, 1893_

Louis and I rehearsed and rehearsed, and one night, many months later, we decided we were ready. With no more ado, we added our act to the bill, and our tent was open for customers.

I was giddy and nervous the night of my debut performance. Not only would it be my first time on stage before an audience, but I was the _lead_.

I wore a long white dressing gown with a black sash, a white corset (also laced with black ribbons) and stockings, wanting to look the part of a virginal maid (which, by all accounts, I was. Louis had kissed me drunkenly on my last birthday, but except for that I had no experience with men. Though Louis' long fingered hands and broad back were starting to enthrall me. I thought it was probably because he was the only halfway decent looking man around). My pale blond hair curled softly around my shoulders and my lips were painted bright red - a virgin, but a seductive one.

Louis, on the other hand, was dashing in his black pirate's shirt and striped breeches. Just before the show, I ran to him, sweating and shaking.

"Louis, I'm really scared," I told him furtively. He just grinned and put an arm around my shoulder.

**(Cue: "Razzle Dazzle" from _Chicago_)**

"Birdy, you got nothing to worry about," he said. "It's just a circus, kid. A three ring circus. And kid," he chucked me under my chin. "You're workin' with a star."

I laughed as he began to sing.

"_Give 'em the old razzle dazzle.  
Razzle dazzle 'em.  
Give 'em an act with lots of flash in it  
And the reaction will be passionate."_

He moved away from me to twirl around the tent.

"_Give 'em the old hocus pocus.  
Bead and feather 'em_.  
_How can they see with sequins in their eyes?"_

I retorted with logic with my own, "_What if my hinges all are rusting?  
What if, in fact, I'm just disgusting?"_

But he just smiled that infectious smile and hugged me tight.

"_Razzle dazzle 'em," _he sang, "_and they'll never catch wise._"

He thought a minute, then finished with, "_Razzle dazzle 'em…  
And they'll make you a star!"_

And you know what?

He was right.

* * *

We were mentioned in not one, not two, but _three_ newspapers the next day. The reviews were glowing, and more than flattering.

"_New and fabulous talent in a forgotten venue!"_

"_Phantasma astonishes us once more! Coney Island's best!"_

"_Beautiful, sensational and fascinating! A tour de force!"_

I celebrated that night with Louis and the rest of the cast of my little show, getting well and truly drunk.

In the days that followed, the glowing reviews brought a new resurgence of customers, and we decided to perform the show twice every night to accommodate the crowds. My tent was filled to bursting, and suddenly everyone knew my name.

Posters were produced, with _Belle and the Pirate_ flourished across them. That hadn't been the name of the act when we'd first performed it - my character's name had been Paulina, not Belle. But everyone knew my name and face now, and called my character Belle anyway. So, shrugging our shoulders, we simply decided to change the name.

Louis relished the newfound fame, but I was bewildered by it. I didn't know how to behave when people rushed me, asking for my autograph and picture. I didn't know what to do when gentlemen asked to buy me drinks or take me home. I blushed and smiled and waved them off, while Louis laughed behind me, saying I should get laid now or forever hold my peace.

The act ran the year, being continually tweaked and changed by me, Louis and Castro. We were proud of our brainchild, and the consistent yet surprising changes in illusions and songs kept our fans' attention. One man I knew, an aging, shy accountant, came nearly every evening. He made me laugh, and he knew the show inside and out, so we soon adopted him as our personal critic - an outside opinion on where we were lacking, and where we were doing well.

* * *

_Summer, 1894_

On my eighteenth birthday, we heard news of Mr. Y and the traveling show.

They arrived tomorrow from France - after three years - back to Coney Island and Phantasma!

I was a flurry of excitement, shaking and giggling when I heard the news just before my show that night. The girl doing my hair tutted and fussed at my constant movement, but Louis was less than impressed. He lounged in his chair, one long leg flung over the arm, and adjusted his makeup.

"You know what this means, don't you, Birdy?" he asked.

"That our friends are coming back and Phantasma will be everything it once was?" I replied, a bit sharply, disliking his tone of voice. He threw me an ironic glance.

"No, chit," he replied. "It means we'll be thrown aside. To make way for Mr. Y's," he gestured in a vaguely irritated way, "_extravaganza_."

"You're wrong," I told him firmly. "If anything, Monsieur will be pleased. Proud, even." I hoped so. At the back of my mind, for the past three years, I measured my little act against what Phantasma's master was capable of. Every note I wrote, every note I sang, was dedicated to him. I hoped he would like them.

"You're a fool, Mouse," Louis scoffed. "And I still don't understand why you insist on calling him _monsieur_." His American accent made the word sound vulgar. I stuck my tongue out at him.

"He's French, idiot," I replied. Louis' eyebrows raised.

"And how, exactly, do you know that?" he asked. I'd never told them about my solo encounters with Mr. Y, but part of me wanted to keep it secret. Something only the two of us shared. So I shrugged.

"He has a slight accent," I said, though this wasn't true. I'd never detected a hint of a French accent from Mr. Y. He sounded like a blue-blood American, rich and rounded tones, which just made him more mysterious - because the way he spoke French was the way a native did. His tongue was versatile, at the least.

Louis hadn't heard an accent, either.

"No," he said slowly. "He must've told you…" Then, he snapped his fingers. "You slept with him, didn't you?" I opened my mouth in horror, and he snickered. "You bad thing, that's why you're obsessed."

"I was fifteen when he left!" I argued. Monsieur was a grown man. The very thought was disgusting, though of course Louis didn't find a problem with it.

"Yes," he mused. "He was your first, wasn't he? Always said, didn't I? That Mr. Y, he's a deviant."

"You're vile," I replied. "No, I hardly met the man. He spoke French to me once."

"Bonded you, did it?" Louis said, his eyes glinting. I threw a shoe at him.

* * *

My excited energy was reflected in the show that night. Everything went perfectly, not a single misstep the entire night (which, if you've ever been in a live show, you'll know is unheard of). Louis had never sounded better, never been more fluid with his hands during the illusions. He'd never kissed me with such passion or flung his body around the stage so determinedly during the sword fights.

The chorus and dancers were unprecedented. They outdid themselves. Like angels. Every note was pitch perfect, not a voice out of tune. Every dance step was en pointe, precise and lovely.

And the audience! They laughed when they were meant to laugh. They cried when they were meant to cry. They thundered their applause and screamed their delight.

It was as though a spirit was in the air, an energy that brought the production to a startling pinnacle. I was swept up in it, letting my voice soar in a way it hadn't before.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mr. Y's masked face. He was my mysterious, unreachable muse, and I sang for him.

* * *

That night, after the crowds had gone home and the cast had passed out in drunken slumber, I paced backstage in my tent. I couldn't sleep, too excited by the thought of their imminent return. I would see my friends again - Molly, Corvo, Max, Claudia, all the rest… Mr. Y… He would be home again, to fill the Main Stage with his music and beauty.

I still wore my costume - my ivory corset and dressing gown, tied with a black ribbon around my waist, but my hair was let loose and my makeup was washed away. If I was a lady in a grand house, instead of a lowly performer in a circus, I would be appropriately dressed for washing up before bed.

A glimmer of light under the dropped curtain caught my attention. Slowly, I shifted the cloth aside and peered through, to find the center spotlight had been left on.

Sighing at the incompetence of the crew, I almost turned around to go turn it off, until a flash of red caught my attention. Looking closer, curious, I saw that a single red rose had been left on the stage, in the perfect center.

Fascinated, I stepped through the curtain, towards it. It hadn't been there earlier - I had swept the stage myself not thirty minutes ago. Slowly, gently, I stepped into the spotlight fixed so perfectly on the rose. I bent and picked it up.

Around the stem, someone had tied a black ribbon. I touched the silk, entranced. Who had left this here?

I looked towards rough hewn benches that held the audience in the dark of the tent, empty now… except…

**(Cue: "In All My Dreams I Drown" from **_**The Devil's Carnival**_**)**

I stiffened when I saw the dark shape sitting alone on the bench, in the very back row - just a shadow, a gleam of white. When he had my attention he rose to standing, very slowly. I felt music prick my ears, felt it in my soul.

Then he sang, a deep bass, smooth and silky. It was a song from my play, one I had written myself, usually performed by Louis and I in a haunting duet.

"_The ship, it swayed, heave-ho, heave-ho  
On a dark and stormy blue."_

Knowing instinctively what he wanted, I joined my voice with his, feeling his very presence pulling at me. I was not yet sure who he was, but I thought I knew.

Together, my voice high and sweeping, his low and rumbling, we sang.

"_And I held tight to the captain's might  
As he pulled up his trews.  
'You haven't slept,' heave-ho, he said,  
'In many suns and moons.'_

He started towards me, up the center aisle, his hands moving gently with the music. But I still could not see his face.

"'_Oh, I will sleep when we reach shore,  
And pray we get there soon.'"_

And then he came into the dim light, and I saw his broad shoulders, his long black coat, his ebony hair. He looked exactly the same as he had three years ago, but with the clarity that comes with age I realized for the first time that he probably had some West Asian blood in him. He was not dark skinned - the complexion was practically pallid. But those exotic, lidded eyes, the fullness of his mouth, the curve of his nose - all subtly suggested Persian heritage.

He was beautiful, but also unreal to me in that moment. Those high cheekbones, the expressive mouth and eyebrows... that white, porcelain mask… Was I looking at a man at all? I'd never known one who, with only his voice and his eyes, could make me feel like this. My entire being buzzed with a feeling I'd only ever felt in his presence.

Again, our voices soared together.

"_He said, 'Now, hush, love,  
'Here's your gown.  
'There's the bed, lanterns down.'_

He swept onto the stage, and I turned to face him as we sang. He kept a wide berth, pacing around me like a stalking cat. His eyes were focused directly on me, intense, unwilling to break away.

"_But I don't want to go to sleep.  
In all my dreams, I drown."_

As we went into verse, Mr. Y approached me slowly, step by step, his hand outstretched, simultaneously conducting my voice and reaching for me.

"_The captain howled, heave-ho, heave-ho,  
And tied me up with sheets."_

He swept behind me, his hands hovering an inch above my shoulders. His fingertips ghosted against my neck and goosebumps raced up my arms.

'_A storm is brewing in the south...'_

The next words were growled into my ear by Monsieur alone. I felt his hot breath stir the hair by my ears.

"'_It's time you go to sleep.'"_

Shakily, I joined him with my voice again. I felt every melancholy, longing note, the sexual nature of the lyrics making me flushed and warm.

"_His berth, it rocked, heave-ho, heave-ho,  
The ocean gnashed and moaned.  
'Like Jonah, we'll be swallowed whole,  
And spat back teeth and bones.'"_

Mr. Y stepped away then, leaving me desperate for more of his warmth. I turned towards him and met his intense gaze, wondering what all of this meant. It felt like more than simply a maestro conducting a pupil - and besides, it was so unprecedented. The way he looked at me, with fire in his eyes… The way his voice broke with yearning…

We sang:

"_He said, 'Now, hush love,  
'Here's your gown.  
'There's the bed, lanterns down.'  
But I don't want to go to sleep…"_

He stopped singing to let me finish the chorus myself.

"_In all my dreams I drown."_

Taking a step closer to him, I broke into my own solo at the bridge. I reached for him and he watched me sing:

"_Captain, captain!  
I will do your chores,  
I will warm your cot at night,  
And mop your cabin floors.  
Scold me, hold me.  
I'll be yours to keep.  
The only thing I beg of you -  
Don't make me go to sleep."_

For the first time, I saw a closed-mouth smile grace his full, pale lips. He narrowed his eyes at me and once more our voices entwined as his hand came up to beckon.

"_The sky, it flashed, heave-ho, heave-ho."_

I rushed to him.

"_His pillow dulled the brink."_

I clasped his hand with both of mine, and he looked down to where our skin touched, confusion and sadness stealing over his features. He did not sing the next line with me, apparently startled:

"_The curtains ran between my legs  
As we began to sink_."

But then he pulled his hands away, meeting my eyes as though trying to unravel a great mystery in them. He reached for my face as once again we sang together.

"_I closed my eyes, heave-ho, heave-ho,  
As the ship was rent and felled.  
Eddies in the water headed to the mouth of hell."_

His thumb skimmed my lower lip for the briefest of instants, his dark black eyes flicking to my mouth. I heard yearning in his voice when next we sang, and I echoed it with yearning of my own. I yearned with all of me.

"_He said, 'Now, hush love,  
Here's your gown.  
There's the bed, lanterns down.'"_

And then he began to back away, towards the curtains and the shadows, leaving my skin burning where he'd come so close to touching it. I watched him go sadly, as we sang the last few haunting notes of the song together.

"_I'm begging you, please wake me up.  
In all my dreams, I..."_

The music died away, and for a long moment we stared at each other, Monsieur and I. I longed to ask him if he'd felt that - if he'd heard it and sensed it and _loved _it like I did. We had been magic for a few short verses, and the energy between us was _real, _by god! Was he proud of me? Did this mean he liked what he had seen?

But his eyes were unfathomable. He did not say another word.

After a long, silent moment, he turned and swept through the curtain. I watched his coattails disappear after him as he veritably melted into the shadows. There was never a more empty silence.

And then, his voice came again, soft and sweet and breaking. It soared through the rafters somehow, though I'd just watched him go backstage (he was a talented ventriloquist).

"_Brava,"_ he sang, "_brava, bravissima…"_

I shivered as goosebumps swept over my entire body, taking a long moment to stand in silence and listen for anything else. But nothing came.

For the first time in what seemed like eternity, I took a breath.

* * *

**Hope you liked it! I gotta apologize for the rather cheesy use/change of lyrics from POTO up there ("No doubt you'll do your best" etc). Not sure I like it, but I left it in anyway. What did you think?**


	4. The Beauty Underneath

The next day I was sure it had been a dream. It _must _have been.

Why? Because the travelers hadn't returned yet! Their ship did not even dock until noon. I'll admit, I pouted about this. I'd felt something, something alive and beautiful, and it was so _vivid_. Dreams faded, didn't they? But Mr. Y wasn't even in America.

We spent the day preparing for the return of our master, and that included entering Main Stage for the first time in three years. The abandonment had been a mistake. It was musty and dirty inside, and I cursed myself for not having thought of it sooner. We closed down most of the tents in the morning and early afternoon just to get the work done.

Once Main Stage sparkled, all my energy went towards perfecting that night's performance of _Belle and the Pirate_. He _would_ be here tonight, I knew, and first impressions were the most important. Part of me was annoyed that he _had_ missed the triumph last night. Well, we just had to repeat it.

Around four in the afternoon, Louis shoved his way into my dressing room, red and drunk and raging.

"I _told_ you!" he stormed. "I fucking _told_ you, didn't I?! Shunted aside like garbage!" He kicked my trunk, stubbed his toe and sat down furiously on my cot.

"Explain," I demanded, turning from my vanity with a hairpin in hand. But my heart sank. The show started in three hours… unless…

Louis fished inside his jacket and brought out a piece of thick, creamy parchment. Opening it, he slurred the words there, "_Tonight's performance of _Belle and the Pirate_ in Tent 3 is cancelled, in lieu of a time conflict with the production on the Main Stage - _Mister Y's Phantasma Exotique_. The attendance thereof by Louis St Regis and _la mademoiselle _is requested._ Signed, of bloody course, _Y._"

I was _la mademoiselle_, I knew. My pulse fluttered, at the same time as my stomach sank. And there was a hint of annoyance in my gut, too - I found a wry, dry humor in his words, as though he was mocking me from afar.

"He hasn't even seen it!" Louis complained, falling backwards onto my bed. He was even drunker than I'd thought - apparently it had been some time since he'd received the letter and gotten into the whiskey. I was irritated that he hadn't told me earlier, but I let it pass for now. I supposed my hair would just have to look this fabulous all evening.

"Oh, yes," Louis flipped the letter over. "On the back it just says _6 PM sharp._ What a bastard."

He turned to me expectantly, wanting kindred anger, but I only shrugged.

"It's not fair," I agreed. "But we'll just have to convince him to let us show him some night."

Louis looked at me, sly as a drunkard could be. "How do you plan on doing _that_, _la mademoiselle_?"

I sighed, fed up with his innuendo.

"By _talking_ to him," I said. "Christ, you all act as if he's some _being_. He's just a man. He'll listen to sense."

Loui smacked his lips, rolling his head back and forth over my sheets. "Come over here, Beauty."

I rose, resigned, knowing his mood. He only called me Beauty when he was drunk and affectionate, and I was inclined to humor him for the moment. He needed comfort, and I did, too.

I sat on the bed by his legs, and he sat up, staring me blearily in the eye.

"Why haven't we made love, yet?" he asked me, reaching toward my bosom. I rolled my eyes and slapped his hand away, standing again. I wouldn't hear that kind of talk with him, and he _knew_ that.

Louis laid back on the bed again, all defeat. "I know why," he pouted. "Cuz you're obsessed with that _White Mask_."

I snapped my fingers at him, and pointed to the door. "_Out_," I barked. "You're being a bastard, Louis, and I won't have it."

"Admit it!" Louis said, clambering off the bed. "Your little core is _aching_ for _Monsieur_."

"You're an idiot," I shot back.

"It's ridiculous, if you think about it," he said, swaying towards the exit. "He doesn't even have most of his face. It was burned off, you know. He came to Coney Island a _freak_ like the rest of us." He turned back around to face me. "But you ignore me and everyone else for stupid White Mask. For the _mystery _of someone you don't even _know_. Just like _Molly_."

There was a moment of silence after he spat her name. I hadn't known.

"He has nothing to do with why I haven't slept with you," I said, coldly ignoring his hurt. He didn't deserve my sympathy at the moment.

Louis laughed bitterly. "Beauty and the Beast," he scoffed. Then, with a flourish, he left the tent.

I sighed, wondering if he'd be at the show, and looked around my dressing room in something close to despair.

For the second time in less than a day, a gleam of red caught my attention. There, over by my jewelry box…

A red rose, tied with a black ribbon, laid on my desk, slightly wilted. I paced to it, and when I picked it up the vivid memory flew back to me of putting it there after finding it on the stage last night.

So it _hadn't _been a dream!

Feeling triumphant and giddy, I found I no longer cared that _Belle and the Pirate_ had been cancelled. Somehow, in his ever-enigmatic way, Mr. Y had arrived in America a night early, and attended my show, unrecognized!

And he'd _liked_ it!

My heart was fluttering - there is nothing more rewarding than pleasing your muse. Fuck Louis and his concerns, everything was going so well!

* * *

They arrived silently and quickly. At five o'clock the lot behind Main Stage was empty. At 5:30 it was full of caravans, and the travelers were inside the theater, which had again been locked to us. I hadn't even seen a soul, but I figured that was probably the intention. To increase a sense of mystery, not only for the patrons, but for the rest of the cast and crew.

Mr. Y would want to come back with a bang - I imagined he could scarcely help himself (I had quite the mental picture of what I thought Mr. Y must be like personally, built up over years of wanting and worshipping the absent genius. It's laughable how wrong I was in some aspects, but in others I was eerily accurate).

I arrived at the entrance of Main Stage at 6 pm sharp, and frowned when I noticed a sign proclaiming that the show did not begin until 7. A queue hadn't even formed yet.

I had dressed up. My hair, which had already been done for _Belle and the Pirate_, was curled and set fashionably on my head, loose blond ringlets framing my face and neck. I wore one of my new dresses, created from scratch and with lots of help from the girls in costuming - it had been a long time since I'd sewn regularly, and my hands were clumsier than I'd left them. The dress was deep red, sleeveless for the warm summer night, and its square neckline was rather low cut. There was a short bustle in the back, and the skirt was long and slim against my legs.

I wore short, fingerless lace gloves and a thin choker of black silk - in fact, it was the very black silk ribbon that had been tied around Mr. Y's rose. I felt it gave me an edge. My lips were pale but my eye makeup was smokey.

Two carnies waited by the door, who I didn't recognize. One was a huge, muscular man with very dark skin and enormous gauges in his ears and lower lip. The other was a tiny woman, smaller than Max, no more than three feet tall and dressed like a living porcelain doll. I was _positive_ that these two had not been part of Phantasma before their excursion to Europe. He must have picked up more cast in their travels.

"Ah, _voici la mademoiselle_," the human doll said in a high, sweet voice.

"Come _in_, lady," the man rumbled, pushing open the door to the theater. I froze, a bit startled, when a fine mist crept out from inside.

"Come on, come on," the doll said, putting her tiny hand on my calf and pushing. The huge man placed his meaty fingers on the small of my back and pushed too. Suddenly I was inside. The doors closed behind me, and I looked around.

His theater was different, far different than I'd ever known it. Suddenly, by his coming, it was alive again, lit with electric light in blues and purples. A mist floated gently across the floor, dispensed by hidden dry ice. I smelled rum and sugar and sweat. I felt I was in a dream as I made my way into the grand auditorium.

Through the huge double doors laid a different world, one of dreamscape and shadow. They'd really outdone themselves, improving the effects beyond imagination in the years they'd been traveling. The cast had grown, too, nearly doubled in size. So much talent.

Stars and fog seemed to lift the darkness, even though we were inside, and spotlights in blues and greens and purples swooped through the room. It seemed warm-up for the act was underway - performers danced in every corner, wearing glittering, dark costumes. Contortionists and acrobats snaked up the walls and flew overhead, while fire eaters and freaks and bellydancers took to the stage. I saw no one I recognized, but I knew they were there, hidden behind masks and makeup.

The music was pounding here, a wild, frantic bassline - the orchestra in the pit were all dressed as demons, backlit by red light.

And he was there, too - tall and commanding in his mask, standing center stage, surveying his work. He turned, and it seemed as soon as he saw me, the orchestra changed tune abruptly, to something I'd never quite heard before - something pounding and intense and passionate.

(**Cue: "Beauty Underneath" from **_**Love Never Dies**_**)**

Overwhelmed with the whole spectacle, I turned and reached out to touch the costume of a performer as he whirled past me up the aisle, spinning fire. When he was gone my fingers tingled, and I caught sight of Monsieur again - his arms were stretched toward me, and I felt compelled to approach him.

He sang in a voice I hadn't realized I'd missed, until it filled every part of me.

"_Have you ever yearned to go  
Past the world you think you know?  
Been enthralled to the call  
Of the beauty underneath?"_

I knew he was addressing me, personally. This was for me. He was, perhaps, welcoming me to the cast - not just the crew, the _cast_.

Feeling hopeful, I stepped closer, and he tilted his head down to stare down at me. He gesticulated around him wildly, and I stopped in my tracks, distracted by the beauty of the performers and flames and effects.

"_Have you let it draw you in  
Past the place where dreams begin?_"

Mr. Y raised a hand to touch the trailing hand of the acrobat spinning overhead.

"_Felt the full breathless pull of the beauty underneath?_"

He spread his arms and tilted his head to the sky as lightning seemed to dance around the chamber.

"_When the dark unfolds its wings  
Do you sense the strangest things?  
Things no one would ever guess -  
Things mere words just can't express?_"

I found myself on the stage, though I can't remember the steps I took to get there. I was breathless with excitement and passion, and he held out his hand to me, waiting for my reply.

Without an ounce of hesitation, I rasped "_Yes_."

Again, he gestured around, wanting me to behold his world - but I had eyes only for his dark form. I followed his every move as he swept around the stage, edging closer and closer as he reveled in this performance.

"_Do you find yourself beguiled  
By the dangerous and wild?  
Do you feed on the need  
For the beauty underneath?_"

He'd stopped before me, and I reached out to him, but he evaded me. Instead, suddenly he was behind me. I felt his commanding presence, the warmth of his hands as they skimmed lightly above my arms, just a hair's breadth from actual touch. His breath rasped into my ear.

"_Have you felt your senses surge  
And surrendered to the urge?_"

His hands slid around my torso, not quite touching me, ghosting against the corset I wore. He slowly swept them up towards my chest, up my neck. I could feel heat radiating from his skin, but only the lightest flutter of his fingertips.

"_Have been hooked as you looked  
At the beauty underneath?"_

My hand came up to touch the side of his face, over his mask - meaning no harm - but his fingers were clenched around my wrist in an instant, pulling it away, vice-like and violent. I gasped as he stepped beside me and looked straight into my eyes, his thunderous voice echoing through the space. He still gripped my arm in one long-fingered hand, while his other gestured to the sky.

"_When you stare behind the night  
Can you glimpse its primal might?"_

The hand that did not grip me extended towards my face.

"_Might you hunger to possess  
Hunger that you can't repress_?"

Looking deep into those ebony eyes, I nearly moaned, "_Yes_."

He snatched his hand away as soon as his fingers grazed my cheek and released my wrist abruptly, stepping back again. I allowed my attention to return to the acrobats flying across the ceiling.

"_It seems so beautiful_," I sang.  
"_So strange and beautiful…_" I turned back to him and put my hand on his arm.  
"_Everything's just as you say._"

He looked down to where my hand gripped his sleeve as though scarcely believing I touched him, his eyes softening, but I was already distracted by the fire eaters to my left. I was sure one of them was Corvo, but he'd shaved his white hair into a mohawk. I let go of the masked man, stepping towards them. In my distraction, I didn't hear the words he sang next, but his voice rumbled through my body.

The man I thought was Corvo turned away and disappeared among the other performers.

I turned back to Monsieur, to find him looking at me, just as he sang the end of his verse, the one I hadn't heard:

"_...The very same way!"_

I rushed to him, excited to my core by all of this. I felt enchanted, utterly magical. I had not known this feeling before him. His arms raised to accept mine when I grasped his sleeves again - I felt his long white fingers curl around my elbows. He was shaking, ever so slightly.

I sang to him with passion:

"_Is the music in your head?  
Have you followed where it led?  
And been graced with a taste  
Of the beauty underneath?_"

I lifted my hands to to my head, mind whirling, wanting him to show me _everything_ he knew. He lived in a world I dreamed of, one of darkness and mystery and beauty. One shunned by those who had too-little imagination.

I turned away from him, but felt him close behind me, listening intently. I continued to sing.

"_Does it fill your every sense?  
Is it terribly intense?_"

I turned back to him and looked at him pleadingly, my hands coming up to clasp him around the neck. It was intimate, forward, and it seemed to surprise him.

"_Tell me you need it, too_," I demanded. "_Need the beauty underneath._"

He grabbed my wrists and whirled me around, then brought my back forcibly against him. His hands on each of my wrists, he crossed my arms across my chest and held me.

We sang together, him and I - the atmosphere bonded us, a hellish, beautiful symphony.

"_When it lifts its voice and sings  
Don't you feel amazing things?"_

His hands released my wrists to slide across my body, this time actually making firm contact on my bodice.

"_Things you know you can't confess -  
Things you thirst for nonetheless._"

His hands ran over me slowly, greedily, every finger spread. I smelled him - masculine and spicy - felt his ragged breath in my ear, his lean body pressed hard against my back. He was barely-controlled passion, wanting desperately to spill out but afraid - so afraid of frightening me.

I wanted to reassure him that I was not afraid of him - that I _wanted_ his mad energy, his mystery. My voice rang out alone, but even to my ears it seemed too innocent for this place. Which, I'm sure, didn't help my cause.

"_It's all so beautiful,_" I sang.

I heard his voice, a growl in my ear, asking, "_Can it be?_"

"_Almost too beautiful_," I sang out again. And he turned me, quickly, gathering me flush against him in his arms. His masked face was mere inches away.

Gazing into each other's eyes, we sang together, "_Do you see what I see?_"

I wanted him to crush his mouth to mine, but he tore away from me, walking quickly towards the side of the stage. I heard him this time, as he sang to himself, his voice roughened with feeling.

"_To her it's beautiful.  
My world is beautiful!"_

"_How can this be what it seems_?" I asked him desperately, gazing around.

We turned and met eyes. He reached for me. His voice joined with mine again, rising and surging -

"_All of my most secret dreams  
Somehow set free!_"

We sounded good together, I could reflect in that moment, as we had last night. But that was the last coherent thought I had for a while.

The cast around us resurged in chorus, Monsieur's voice leading their darkly beautiful harmonies. One of the performers had me around the waist suddenly, spinning me away from Mr. Y, across the stage in a giddy dance. I looked up to find it was, indeed, Corvo. He was grinning, widely, and I laughed, wrapped my arms around my old friend and whirled with him.

"_You can feel the lift,_" the performers sang, Monsieur's voice rising powerfully above the rest.

"_Yes!_" others replied as I did, sensually, as though making love.

Faces and colors and flame rushed by me in a whirled as I was passed from partner to partner - I was quickly losing control of my feet, my timing, _everything_.

"_Come closer!" _the performers beckoned, others answering, "_Yes!"_

"_Let me show you the beauty underneath."_

I started to vocalize, impassioned and lost, as the song continued around me.

"_You can face it.  
(Yes!)  
You can take it.  
(Yes!)  
You see through to the beauty underneath."_

And then the crowd parted and I saw Mr. Y again, standing there at the back of the stage, tall and beautiful and staring. Dizzily, I reached out to him, and he beckoned me closer.

"_To the splendor!"_ he cried.

I echoed, "_To the splendor!"_

"_And the glory!"_

"_And the glory!"_

"_To the truth of the beauty underneath."_

"_To the beauty underneath!"_

I'd reached him in the shadows, unseen by the others on the stage, who were distracted in their own music and dancing. Monsieur's hands hovered over my hips as I stepped close, his face closing in on mine, still singing passionately.

"_You'll accept it_," he cried.

"Yes!" I agreed.

"_You'll embrace it!" _His mouth inched closer and I wanted it - I wanted it so badly. I'd embrace anything he gave me.

"Yes!"

His voice reached incredible crescendo, his tone all true excitement.

"_Let me show you the beauty underneath_!"

I was too wrapped up in this. Energy pounded through me, his voice rang through my veins. In that moment, I lost control.

Forward and stupid, I grabbed his face in both hands... and slammed my lips against his.

He met my kiss with returned passion for the first few seconds - clumsy and flustered, but passion nonetheless. He took brief control, losing himself in the moment, his tongue slipping through my lips to deepen the kiss as the show raged on around us - movement and whirling darkness and fire.

Then, like a switch was flipped, he began to shake slightly, and his eyes squeezed shut. His lips were soft and perfect. They befitted his voice - this man, this angel, this genius.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, wanting to be closer to his firm body, and he gasped as I bit his lip, meaning to say that I wanted all of him. He could take me here, now, on the stage if he wanted - I doubted anyone would even look twice. No one was even looking our way as it was.

I hadn't had much experience kissing men, but I was hoping he wouldn't notice.

I wanted his hands to do more than they were, hovering along my body. I wanted his shoulders to lose that hunch they'd gained a few seconds after the kiss started. I wanted the tension to leave his body.

But it didn't. In fact, every moment my lips were against his, he stiffened even more.

Finally, he tore away from me, took a step back… and stared at me as if I was a monster.

"_Enough_!" he cried, loud and long and agonized. The orchestra ceased playing, the performers stilled and quieted. In the ringing silence around us, the only sound was his labored breathing as he stared at me, eyes dark and suspicious and _angry_. The fury in his eyes frightened me.

I opened my mouth, about to ask _what the hell just happened_? But he growled at me, waved a devastatingly dismissive hand in my direction, turned on his heel, and stormed away.

I let out a shaky breath, watching him disappear into the darkness.

Then, with horror, I realized what I had done.

How _stupid_ I was! Where had _that_ Belle come from?! Yes, I had longed for Mr. Y for three years, and we had sang together last night with undeniable passion and feeling. But the words we'd sang last night had not been from our souls, but from _Belle and the Pirate_. And his song to me just now, while passionate, had not been romantic in nature. So to kiss him had been totally uncalled for!

I barely knew the man! It was unprecedented. More than that, it was_ rude_. I had been lost in the energy of the song, but that did not excuse such unseemly behavior. He could have hardly spared me a thought over the last three years. He did not want me. In singing with me last night, he'd been merely trying to coach me, or perhaps test me. And tonight, his music had merely been intended as an introduction to his new act. There was no romance meant by it.

I wondered if I'd just ruined my chance to join _Phantasma Exotique_.

"Mouse!" a voice called. And suddenly I was surrounded - Molly, Corvo, Max, Claudia, my dear old friends. Shaking off what had just happened, I beamed and hugged each of them tightly.

For a moment Mr. Y was forgotten and I reveled in their return.

They all looked different! Molly had grown her hair past her waist and dyed it bright red, and wore makeup that spiraled brilliantly from her eyes and down her cheeks.

Corvo, as I had seen, had shaved his head but for a short white mohawk down the center, and his lower lip was pierced once on either side.

Max had forgone his classic wrestler's outfit for a crisp, beautifully tailored suit in midnight purple and his short hair was now blue.

Claudia had tattooed green lizard scales on either temple, just as she had always spoken of wanting, and when she spoke I saw the tip of her tongue was split in half at the tip like a snake - again, something she'd always wanted.

We laughed and fussed over each other. They had apparently seen nothing of Mr. Y and I's little… experience. No one had noticed I kissed him. _Thank God_.

"You've grown up, Mouse," Corvo said, eying my dress appreciatively. "Finally living up to your name." I punched him lightly in the shoulder, and he winced. "Still a brat, though."

"Look at you," Molly gasped, her hand on my cheek. "A woman!" I hugged her again.

"Look at _you_!" I replied. "Look at all of you! You look fantastic!"

"Traveling was good to us, dear Mouse," Max said, clasping my hand. "And Phantasma has been good to you, in our absence."

"Or so we hear," Claudia added, and grinned at me with her sharpened teeth.

"_Belle and the Pirate_?" Corvo asked, smirking. I laughed.

"So you've heard."

"Were you aware that the master attended your performance last night?" Max asked. "He arrived here three days before us."

"I… suspected he came last night," I said carefully. And then, with more eagerness, "Did he say anything to you about it?"

"He liked it," Molly said, firmly, and I beamed.

"Well," Corvo corrected, more measured, "he said it was 'not inappropriate' for the spirit of Phantasma. Which, for him, is something of a compliment, I suppose."

"He was particularly impressed by you, Belle," Max said. "I believe he means to offer you a part in his new production."

My heart fluttered. This was amazing news… unless I'd just ruined it by forcing that foolhardy kiss on him. And as soon as I thought of the kiss, it was much harder to keep smiling. Wanting desperately to put it from my mind, I changed the subject.

"So tell me about your trip!"

We talked for the next half hour. They had arrived in London, toured England, then gone onto the mainland. For some reason, though, they'd avoided Paris, passing by it in both coming and going, which had annoyed Molly. She wanted to see the sights of that proud, glittering city. It was where I'd lived until I was nine, and I told her it was overrated, remembering all the cold, cruel nights huddled under bridges.

The troupe grew every time the master found an exceptional performer or wonder. It doubled its number in eight months. In a year they'd reached Eastern Europe, then into West Asia - India and Persia, which Molly insisted were some of the most rich, beautiful and strange countries in the world.

Mr. Y seemed to have connections worldwide. They stayed at a palace in Persia - "a real _palace_, Belle!" - where Monsieur seemed to be acquainted with the shah himself.

It was then that someone called, "Fifteen minutes till audience!"

"Thank you, fifteen," the rest of the performers called back, confirming they'd heard (it was theater etiquette to do so). Max, Claudia and Corvo immediately ran off to do their last minute preparations. But Molly gave a squeak and grabbed my arm.

"This is my first time performing this aria," she told me, furtively. "He wrote three new songs on our journey, but I only _just_ convinced him to let me touch one of 'em. Had to beg him for months."

I clasped her clammy hand in mine, feeling her tremble with nerves.

"Oh, I haven't been this nervous since my first show," she said. "If he doesn't like it…"

"He'll love it," I promised her, feeling a twinge of guilt. I'd forgotten all about Molly's feelings for the master. It made kissing him even more of a mistake. I wanted to take it back, so badly.

Yet part of me would give anything to feel his soft lips again, to smell him and feel his hands burn across my skin.

I had to apologize, I realized. I had to let him know I knew it had been out of line.

Molly, meanwhile, was bouncing on her heels. "I wish you could stay backstage with me, Belle." I laughed and petted her hair.

**(Cue: "Only for Him" from **_**Love Never Dies**_**. I know, two LND songs in a row… can't help myself.)**

She sang, in her high, sweet voice - but when I heard it again, with my now trained ear, I realized she wasn't quite the singer I'd taken her for when I was a child. She had a nasally quality to her voice, and went flat a few times too many.

"_I'll be waiting in the wings,_" she sang, "_wound up tighter than a string  
As the house begins to dim.  
And I'll practice every line,  
Hoping desperately to shine,  
Shining only him._"

Her words made me sad. Molly's unrequited love for Monsieur was tragic, and it did not bode well for me. If he did not even notice Molly, Lovely Molly, with her seductive eyes and graceful body, after all these years - what hope was there?

And besides, I was being selfish! I couldn't want the man my best friend loved! She'd laid her claim to him over the years of wanting. I had to put this foolish crush out of my mind. I had to focus only on how he frightened me, not how he enchanted me.

So, smiling, I sang back to my dear friend:

"_Just imagine how they'll cheer  
At the moment you appear  
Stepping out before the scrim."_

Molly shook her head, looking up to the rafters dreamily, and sang, "_Let them whoop and let them call.  
I won't hear the crowd at all.  
No, it's only for him._"

She turned back to me, all aflutter. "_Tell me how I look_."

"Fine," I reassured her, smiling.

"Just fine? _What about my hair_."

I touched her lustrous red locks and answered honestly, "_Beautiful_."

"You swear?" she asked. I nodded.

"_Trust me once the boss,_" I sang, trying to calm her nerves,  
"_Sees how you put that song across,  
Molly, he ain't got a prayer._"

"Oh, you mean it?" she said, her eyes sparkling.

"_You'll stand proud into the light_," I continued,  
"_Looking lovely, burning bright,  
All vitality and vive!_"

"_Aha, and I'll rapturously float_," Molly sang, turning toward the edge of the stage with a distinct air of invigorated confidence.  
"_Through the melody he wrote.  
Singing only for him._"

I joined her at the front of the stage, just behind her, fueling her fantasy of the audience that had not yet filled the seats tonight.

"_And before the music dies  
Up the audience will rise,  
Nearly bursting at the brim!"_

Molly smiled and sang, "_And I'll stand there in the glow…  
And perhaps, at last, he'll know_…"

Her eyes got sad, her voice fading away. I felt a deep surge of pity for her, and my guilt returned with full force. _Put him from your mind_, I thought.

"Molly, hurry up, it's almost curtain!" an acrobat called from the side of the stage. "And you! Belle _la mademoiselle_! Find your seat!"

Raising my hands in surrender, and giving Molly one last hug for good luck, I left the stage and found my place in the audience.

* * *

_Mr. Y's Phantasma Exotique_ blew everything I'd ever known clear out of the water. It made _Belle and the Pirate_ look like a burlesque tavern show.

The tunes were, at times, the most wonderful, enchanting music I'd ever heard. It could lift me up and bear me away to strange and wonderful new worlds, through the stars, behind the night. It made me sob dozens of times throughout the show, and not always from empathy for the characters, but from sheer beauty and emotion.

At other points, the music could become downright terrifying. It was new and edgy, pounding and violent, peppered with sadness or sweetness. I felt Mr. Y in every note, knew each had come from his heart. The lyrics were poignant and poetic and utterly profound.

The illusions were bigger and better than any I'd ever seen. There was an onstage beheading (fake, obviously), disappearances into puffs of smoke and shadow, and incredible, daring escapes. Bizarre and beautiful talent had a chance to shine here. There were pyrotechnics, contortion, acrobatics, daring stunts, freaks of nature… again, there was everything and more.

It was the tragic love story of an angel and a demon, which was what it had been when I'd first seen it at fourteen years old. But there were so many changes since then - to the songs, the script and the acts - that it kept astonishing me at every turn. I could find the bones of the show I had known three years ago, but it was clear Mr. Y had fleshed them out. It was beautifully thought through - the story managed to shine through all the splendors happening onstage and throughout the theater. It managed to invoke both feeling and awe.

Molly did shine, but I think Corvo outdid her. He made a dashing demon, and I was sure he would fuel the fantasies of many of the fine young ladies in the theater tonight. His voice was gloriously gruff - he would drop into a growl befitting a seductive creature from Hell - but other times it would soar. And the passion with which he and Molly looked at each other could be felt in the very back row. They made a lovely couple - I wondered why they did not love each other offstage. There was chemistry there, and you can't fake that.

Molly's new solo was lovely, but I honestly did not think her voice suited it. It had slightly too much range for her - she fell flat on a couple high notes and faded into nothing on some of the low notes. I could see why she wanted it, though. It was a song of love and lost passion.

**(Cue: Excerpt from "Memory" from **_**CATS**_**)**

"_Touch me!  
It's so easy to leave me  
All alone with my memory  
Of our days in the sun.  
If you touch me,  
You'll understand what happiness is.  
Look - the new day has begun."_

I felt Mr. Y in those lyrics - or, at least, I felt my idea of Mr. Y. I had to keep berating myself - _You do not even _know_ the man, Belle_. But part of me hoped against hope that, when I had looked into his eyes, I'd seen the truth to him. His passion frightened me, but it intrigued me, too. I knew him and loved him through his music.

When the performers took their final bows, I shot out of my seat for a standing ovation with tears streaming down my face, clapping my hands and screaming as loud as I could. The rest of the theater thundered their approval, too - it was deafening. They wouldn't settle down, and Molly and Corvo ended up bowing three separate times.

All in all, the night was glorious. I succeeded in forgetting how I'd embarrassed myself with Mr. Y earlier by getting drunk with all my old friends. Louis had turned up at intermission, sobered and sheepish, and (after apologizing to me) he, too, joined in on the celebrations. It was wonderful to be together again.

My last thought, as I fell into bed with a spinning head, was that my apology to Monsieur would simply have to wait till tomorrow.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! And, **TheAlleyCat18**, thank you for the review! I appreciate it :)**

**I know "Beauty Underneath" was originally sung between the Phantom and his son, but I think it was a missed opportunity for a kind of-romantic song. It's so pretty and passionate.**


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